


Mike Is A Hitman

by Not_So_Austen



Category: Bandom, Jonas Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-13
Updated: 2011-03-13
Packaged: 2017-11-05 11:42:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/406006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_So_Austen/pseuds/Not_So_Austen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Academy Is... guys are hitmen, the Jonas Brothers own a cafe-bookstore, secret pasts, epic gun fights and awkward and probably inappropriate crushing ensues</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mike drives down the long stretch of back roads out of the city to his favourite dumping ground. It's only on rare occasions that an employer will request the customer 'disappear' but those are some of Mike's favourite jobs. It means he can take a full two days off and hit the road. Every now and then it's nice to have an excuse to get out of the city, and Mike knows he probably never would if it wasn't for work.

Mike winds the window down and flicks the butt of his cigarette outside. The air that whips Mike’s hair across his face smells heavily of dirt and grass and moisture from the recent rain, and the small hills and pastures he can see through the tree line are a lush, wet green. The rain had subsided a short while ago, and now the midday sun is back in full force. Mike rolls his window back up and turns the air con up a little higher.

He stops at a gas station in the next town he passes through to refuel the car and grab a fresh pack of cigarettes and some chips for lunch. Mike parks the car on the side of the road and sits on the wooden-railed fence that separates the road from what looks to be the back of someone’s property and tears open the packet of Cheetos. Mike doesn’t have a problem with eating in his car – the empty food wrappers that litter the back seat and passenger side floor are testament to that – but Cheetos always leave a trail of sticky orange powder all over the place and it’s a bitch to drive with a steering wheel coated in the stuff.

Mike sees the car pull up behind his own, county sheriff’s department shield on the side and lights on top. He’s been pulled over on countless occasions – usually for breathalysers and once for speeding – and after the first couple of times it becomes routine. Mike drops another handful of Cheetos into his mouth and chews them sedately as the deputy emerges from his vehicle.

“Car troubles?” he asks by way of greeting, ambling over to rest against the trunk of Mike’s car which groans under the weight, and Mike notices the deputy’s belt buckle and shirt buttons are under a similar, albeit silent strain.

Mike finishes chewing, swallows, grabs another couple of Cheetos and says, “Just stopping for lunch,” before dropping the new handful of cheese-flavoured snack into his mouth. He tilts the packet up in offering, but the deputy declines.

They make small talk for a while, and Mike spares a moment to consider how very close the deputy is to discovering his crime; what the deputy would say if he knew he was inches away from earthly the remains of one Mr David Gruber who is now sporting a charming new bruise across his neck where the cord Mike had strangled him with still remained. That within the trunk the deputy is resting against there is a conspicuously large, thick, air-sealed case that Mr Gruber now resides in.

But the deputy merely raps his fist against the trunk, bids his farewell and pushes off Mike’s car and returns to his own. Mike waves his hand good-bye in one sharp movement, crinkles up the empty Cheetos packet and tosses it into the backseat. He wipes his hands down the thighs of his jeans, leaving a trail of orange powder in their wake, and climbs back into the car to finish his job.

It’s dusk by the time Mike reaches his destination. He picks his way through the scrub and dense trees, body case in tow, and digs a new grave in the small clearing. As he’s shovelling dirt back into the hole his phone starts buzzing impatiently in the pocket of his jeans. Mike drops his shovel into the soft turned dirt and checks the display: Bill. He presses the ignore button and slips the phone back into his pocket and continues shovelling. His phone only goes off once more, and Mike waits until after he’s finished packing up the car before he checks it again, climbing into the comfort of the driver’s seat and pulling his boots off.

Bill has left him a text message letting Mike know that he’s got a new job lined up as soon as he gets back. Mike hopes this new client is as easy as Mr Gruber was. He has every intention of putting in for a few days vacation after this.

Mike tosses the phone onto the passenger seat and gets to work cleaning the dirt from his boots, clothes and hands. He’ll do a more thorough job once he gets back home; he has limited cleaning supplies with him and he’ll have to give the car a quick once-over as well. But in the meantime it will be good enough to simply _not_ look like he has been out digging graves in the woods.

-+-

Bill is sitting behind the counter waiting for him when Mike returns the next evening. The bell chimes as Mike pushes open the door and Bill glances up and waves him over. The room is difficult to manoeuvre, with small aisles between crowded stands of potted flowers and pre-made bouquets, and the combined smell of the flowers in the room make Mike’s nose itch. The counter is littered with papers and Bill jots down a few quick notes, tucks his pencil behind his ear and leans across the counter towards Mike.

“Is the customer satisfied?” asks Bill, all seriousness except for the trace of amusement Mike can hear in his voice. Mike purses his lips; he hates this part of the routine, but Bill is the boss and he insists on it. Something about constant vigilance and maintaining covers. Mostly Mike thinks that Bill just finds it entertaining. Bill leans forward and looks at him expectantly.

Mike rolls his eyes and says dully, “The customer is very satisfied.”

The corners of Bill’s lips twitch into a barely restrained smile. “Excellent,” he says, tearing a post-it note from one of the ledgers in front of him. “New client. Here’s the file number. I told Siska you’d be by to pick it up, so it should be ready to go. There’s not much in there so you’ll have to do some recon, but it’s nothing you can’t handle.”

Mike nods and peels the post-it from the tip of Bill’s proffered hand. Siska has been demoted to the records room for the foreseeable future and has been sulking about it for the last three weeks. Since Siska almost screwed up a job, though, Mike thinks he’s lucky a stint in records is all he got. But with the Butcher getting injured and Conrad leaving, they were down a few too many and someone needed to keep the files in order.

Sisky frantically moves his feet from the desktop to the floor and slams his game boy into an open drawer as Mike pushes open the door to their records room.

“Oh,” he says, looking over at Mike. “I thought you were Bill checking up on me again. You’re not here to replace me, are you?” he asks hopefully.

“I’m just here to pick up a file,” Mike says, shaking his head, and Siska looks so dejected that Mike resolves to buy him a drink when this new job is finished. Siska takes the post-it when Mike holds it out to him, and pulls a file along with his game boy out of the lower desk drawer. He slaps the file down on the desk and Mike has barely picked it up before Siska’s feet slam down onto the desk after it.

“It’s an easy one,” Sisky says, nodding at the file in Mike’s hands. “Maybe you can convince Bill to let me ride along, supervise on this one so I can get out of this crap hole and get back in the field?”

Mike makes a noncommittal sound at the back of his throat, waves a good-bye and heads back into the main store. Sure Mike feels bad for Siska being stuck in the records room for months on end, but there is absolutely no way Mike is going to get saddled with baby-sitting Siska on a job that requires any amount of reconnaissance. There are only so many “weenie” anecdotes Mike can put up with before he starts considering abandoning the customer in favour of planning the murder of Siska instead.

Bill is hunched over the papers on his desk, a pencil between his lips and fingers tapping away at a calculator and he doesn’t look up when Mike walks out. Bill is the one who decided on a flower shop as the new front for the business, but even after several months he is still genuinely perplexed at the paperwork it entails. Mike thinks there’s something to be said for how comparatively easy it is for Bill to routinely get away with murder than it is for him to run a small business.

Mike flips the Open sign on the door to Closed as he leaves. The flower shop would have closed a couple of hours earlier but no one ever remembers to flip the sign over. Mike stops to light a cigarette when he hits the sidewalk, and he spares a few moments to flick through the file. The new customer is a book store sales assistant named Paul Kevin Jonas II. There’s a work schedule attached and Mike decides to get a better idea of the customer’s daily routines this week, starting tomorrow, and finish the job next week.

There’s a picture paper clipped to the back of the file of a young, curly-haired man who looks about as threatening as newborn puppy and, while Mike can’t think of a reason anyone would need to take out what appears to be a typically unthreatening book store clerk, he thinks Bill and Siska are right: this is probably going to be one of the easier jobs.

-+-

The hair on the back of Kevin’s neck prickles and he _knows_ the guy is staring at him again. The same guy who stopped by yesterday, bought a coffee from the adjoining café bar, settled down at one of the corner tables and stared at Kevin from behind his book for the better part of the afternoon. Kevin tries not to drop the stack of books he’s shelving, but knowing he’s being watched is making him nervous and jittery.

Kevin walks back over to the bookstore counter and sneaks a look at the guy in the corner, but when Kevin looks over the guy appears engrossed in his newspaper and casually sips his coffee. There aren’t many people in the book section so Kevin wanders over to see his brothers in the adjoining café; there’s no real separation between the bookstore and café other than the rows of tables transitioning into rows of book shelves, so Kevin can easily keep an eye on the book counter from there.

“Hey,” says Joe, grabbing an apple cinnamon muffin from the display case and taking a bite. There are always regular lulls in foot traffic on weekdays because most of their patrons are from the surrounding office buildings with regular lunch and tea breaks. Joe thinks these are good times to relax and take a break, and Nick thinks these are good times to catch up on the smaller jobs and increase productivity. Kevin thinks it’s a good idea not to pick sides.

“That guy keeps staring at me,” Kevin stage whispers to Joe who looks up from his muffin and asks loudly, “What guy?”

“Sh!” Kevin hisses and waves his arms emphatically. He doesn’t want the guy to _know_ , sheesh!

“The guy at table three,” says Nick appearing behind them, apron dusted with what looks like flour and batter. “And you’re paying for that,” he says, pointing at the muffin Joe is still cramming into his mouth.

“Table three,” Joe murmurs, ignoring Nick’s latter statement. “The guy with the hair and the creepy eyes?”

Kevin nods and stifles a squeak of fear when the guy looks over at them _right then_. Like he has super hearing or can read minds or something. Kevin really hopes he can’t do either of those things.

“It’s like his eyes are empty,” says Joe in hushed awe, openly staring at the man. “Like he has no _soul_.”

Kevin makes a strangled sound in his throat, and he’s pretty sure his eyes are bugging out. The guy looks like a hungry tiger sizing up a particularly delicious-looking deer. Kevin watches National Geographic, he’d know that look anywhere.

Nick just hits Joe with one of the menus and tells them to get back to work.

Kevin isn’t sure when the creepy guy leaves, because he’s trying so hard to focus on working and not on what Joe was saying about soulless eyes, that when Kevin very subtly sneaks a glance at table three the guy is gone.

Relief floods through him and he’s just thinking that maybe he should talk Nick into vacation time because he’s clearly stressed out, when he hears someone clearing their throat. Kevin looks up from where he’s playing with the tasselled bookmarks on the counter-top display and right into the scary dark eyes of the creepy guy.

Kevin freezes and it’s not until the guy clears his throat again and taps on the cover of the book he’s holding that Kevin so much as blinks. There’s a long and increasingly awkward silence wherein Kevin stares right at the man in front of him and can’t manage to say anything at all. Kevin isn’t so sure if, close up, the guy’s eyes are soulless so much as dark and confused. He’s staring at Kevin like he’s some sort of confusing puzzle that needs to be solved or, possibly, like he’s concerned that Kevin is having some sort of serious incapacitating problem and isn’t sure what to do. That’s probably because of all the not-moving and not-talking Kevin is doing.

“I want to buy this book,” the guy says slowly, tapping his fingers against the cover again for emphasis.

“Oh,” says Kevin after a moment, and he’s more than a little relieved the guy isn’t demanding Kevin hand over his soul or inviting him out to eat puppies or something. “That’s five fifty.”

The guy drops the exact change in coins into Kevin’s hand, says “Thanks, kid,” nods his head and starts walking away, book tucked under his arm, before Kevin can ask him if he wants a bag.

“Have a nice day,” Kevin calls after him, because he has manners, okay? And just because a guy looks a little creepy, it doesn’t mean Kevin isn’t going to wish him a nice day. Even if that day could maybe possibly involve eating poor innocent puppies for snacks. Kevin isn’t sure a soulless puppy-eater would have paid for a book, though. But Kevin also doesn’t know anyone who eats puppies, either, so he can’t be certain.

The guy stops, looks back over his shoulder at Kevin and waves before pushing open the door and leaving. Kevin thinks that maybe he’s just the misunderstood, quiet intense type. Kevin maybe hopes that a lot.

-+-

The alarm clock goes off at 6:15 just like every morning. And, just like every morning, Kevin hits the snooze button and goes back to sleep for another ten minutes. The alarm goes off again exactly ten minutes later, and is followed soon after by the sound of Nick tapping on the wall near Kevin’s head from his own room next door. So Kevin rolls out of bed, gets dressed and heads out into the hall.

Nick and Joe are just stepping out of their respective rooms and the three close their respective doors behind them and trail downstairs to the kitchen. Since they own the building, the brothers live in the three decently sized flats above the café bookstore they run. Kevin’s room is in the middle and he likes knowing that even if they’re in their own separate flats, that he can still hear Joe blasting music too loudly and that Nick will still make sure he’s getting up on time by rapping against the wall near Kevin’s head each morning.

They eat breakfast in the kitchen, and everything smells of freshly baked bread and cinnamon and blueberries because Nick gets up extra early to start baking for their 7am open time. He always goes back upstairs to sleep a little longer and get ready for the rest of the day once he’s finished downstairs. Nick is always scribbling down new recipe ideas in one of his hundreds of notebooks and Kevin sometimes thinks that Nick should be head chef in his own huge restaurant instead of stuck in this tiny café with his brothers, but Kevin also doesn’t want Nick to go away – can’t imagine a life that isn’t here with his brothers joking around and fighting and having fun.

After breakfast Joe grabs a Gatorade from the refrigerator (Nick tells him he’ll be paying for that, too) and heads out for his morning run. Nick washes up and gets to work preparing food for the day, while Kevin hides out in the downstairs lounge and watches one of the music channels until Joe gets back and they have to start setting up tables and getting things ready for opening time.

Joe spends a few minutes checking his reflection in the metal cubby between the counter area and the kitchen.

“How do I look?” he asks for about the hundredth time, sweeping his bangs across his forehead.

“Like a cockatoo with all that preening,” says Nick, sliding a tray of croissants onto the cubby shelf and obscuring Joe’s reflection.

“You like fine, Joe,” says Kevin, quick to deter an argument.

“Just fine?” asks Joe, frowning. “It’s the hair, isn’t it? I need a new style.”

“Your hair is great, Joe,” says Kevin.

Nick rolls his eyes and says, “The only thing you need to fix are your priorities. These croissants aren’t going to put themselves in the display.”

At seven o’clock on the dot they open for business and, since the book store doesn’t officially open until nine, Kevin helps Joe work the café counter for the morning rush. Between seven and eight-thirty each morning is their busiest time of the entire day, with people lining up for coffee and breakfast on their way to work.

Kevin is having a great time taking customer orders while Joe fetches them. Kevin always makes the most tips when he’s working the café counter because he has, as he likes to say, a natural affinity for these things. He’s a people person. He’s polite and bubbly and people like him. Not to say that people don’t like Joe and Nick, because they do. But Kevin is pretty sure that if it came down to it, he’d be voted best cashier.

At exactly 8:23am, however, just as Kevin is about to ask the next customer what they would like today, Joe shoves him out of the way. Kevin stumbles a little, but thankfully avoids what could have been an entirely embarrassing fall to the floor, the likes of a slap-stick routine. There is minimal flailing as he steadies himself with one hand on the counter and decides that he will get Joe back later.

The mid-week produce delivery should be arriving soon, so Kevin leaves Joe leaning over the counter and flirting with the pretty blonde woman and heads through the kitchen to the side street delivery bay.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” Kevin yells over his shoulder to Nick, who is furiously slicing away at something on the chopping board in front of him. “Produce guy will be here soon.”

“Yeah,” Nick calls back distractedly, and Kevin slips through the door to the lounge room and outside.

It’s cool and dark in the alley at this time of morning, and Kevin leans back against the door frame and closes his eyes. It’s nice to get some time to himself, Kevin thinks, and get away from the craziness inside. Kevin wonders if Nick has noticed Joe flirting yet and yelled at him to get back to work and stop holding up the line.

He doesn’t even hear footsteps approaching so, when his upper arms are suddenly in someone’s ridiculously tight grip, he is more than a little startled. Kevin’s eyes fly open and he involuntarily flinches backwards and he probably would have hit his head even harder on the wooden door if not for the firm grip steadying him.

“Woah, steady,” says the owner of the hands, and Kevin freezes without really meaning to.

Kevin looks up and right into those dark, possibly-soulless eyes and squeaks, “Creepy guy?”

-+-

Mike’s done some preliminary background checking into Paul Kevin Jonas II, his brothers and their business, trying to get a feel for the least messy way to complete this job. But the one thing that has kept bugging him is how clean this kid’s background is. It isn’t Mike’s business to ask why a customer is booked, but it’s usually pretty obvious within the first few days of routine surveillance.

There’s something about this job that feels off.

Mike is not impressed with himself. He spent his first two days of reconnaissance breaking all his own rules: he shouldn’t have spent more than half an hour in the café observing, he certainly should have been more subtle, and he shouldn’t have engaged the customer. He’s still not sure why he did it.

Mike is leaning against the brick wall at the mouth of the alley behind the bookstore, contemplating his next move, when he sees Kevin step out into the alley and slump back against the door. He’s moving before he really thinks about it, hands gripping Kevin’s upper arms.

“Woah, steady,” says Mike when Kevin flinches backwards into the closed door.

Kevin blinks up at him and says, “Creepy guy?”

Mike isn’t sure what to say to that, but he notices the fresh red smear on the doorjamb and says, “Your head is bleeding.”

“Where are we going?” asks Kevin as Mike wraps a supportive arm around Kevin’s side and walks him back out of the alley and down the street.

“We’re gonna get you cleaned up,” says Mike. “I’ve got supplies in my car.”

“Oh,” Kevin murmurs and leans into Mike’s side as they push past the people crowding the sidewalk heading in the opposite direction.

Mike digs through his pocket for his keys as soon as his car is in sight, and presses the unlock button on the remote. He opens the door and helps settle Kevin in the passenger seat before collecting the little first aid box from the trunk.

Kevin is slumped over sideways in the seat, feet still planted on the pavement and head against the backrest. Mike slides into the drivers seat, settles the first aid kit between the seats and reaches across to pull Kevin into the car and shut the door behind him.

“Are you wearing heels?” Mike asks when Kevin’s feet are safely inside the car.

“They happen to be a valid fashion choice,” says Kevin, scuffing the boots in question across the floor.

Mike just snorts and gets to work. The first aid kit is small and Mike grabs some tissues first to clean up before he pulls out a tube of antibacterial ointment and some gauze to press against the wound. It is only a small cut, but pretty messy. Mike tells Kevin as much and hands him a couple aspirin along with the bottle of water he picked up that morning. He presses a piece of gauze against the back of Kevin’s head.

“Keep pressure on it,” says Mike, packing up the first aid box and dropping onto the floor in the back. “It should stop bleeding soon enough.”

Mike looks at the kid, all curly-haired and barely 20 years old. His record’s suspiciously clean – like he’s been living in an isolated bubble his entire life – and Mike just doesn’t feel right about this job. Kevin and his brothers know his face and he’s screwed this up so bad. But Kevin’s right there in the car beside him. It would be like holding a suspect during the investigative process, really, Mike reasons. When Mike gets assigned a new customer they’ve usually done something to warrant it. Not that he should need to justify it to himself or anyone else, a job’s a job, but. Well...

Mike really needs that vacation.

“My head hurts,” grumbles Kevin, holding the gauze awkwardly against the back of his head, elbow jutting out into the space between him and Mike.

“Yeah, kid,” says Mike as he turns the key in the ignition. “You hit the door pretty hard.”

Mike isn’t sure if Kevin has hit his head hard enough to cause a concussion, or even remember what the procedure is for concussions because he usually only needs to distinguish between dead and not-dead-yet which isn’t usually very complicated. He’s fairly certain it doesn’t matter if someone with a concussion falls asleep so long as they wake up again without difficulty, but he doesn’t want to take any chances. So, when Kevin starts to letting his eyes droop, Mike shakes his arm until he regains focus again.

“Where’re we going?” asks Kevin dazedly, dropping the bloodied gauze and turning to look out the window.

“Just keep holding this to your head,” says Mike, picking up the piece of gauze from the seat and pressing it back against Kevin’s head.

Mike finally pulls into his parking space and helps Kevin up the stairs. Mike isn’t sure what he’s doing anymore, but there’s no easy way either of them can get out of this now.

-+-

Kevin’s arm feels all numb and tingly and it takes him a few moments to realise he’s fallen asleep with it trapped underneath him. He rolls off of his arm and onto the floor, which was really not what Kevin had planned to do, but at least his arm is free. Kevin sits up, shaking his arm to wake it up and sets off the sensation of pin pricks across his skin. Kevin had expected to wake up in his own bed. His own bed which is king-sized and soft and so roomy that he almost never falls out onto the floor in his sleep. Instead he’s woken up on a couch – not even his own couch – and the back of his head is tingly and itchy and he has no idea where he is.

Kevin’s arm is feeling normal again and he scratches at the spot on his head that’s troubling him. It hurts where Kevin’s nails scratch across the scalp, and his fingers are peppered with flakes of dried blood. And Kevin remembers hitting his head, and the guy from the café helping him, but he isn’t sure why he’s here in this cramped little apartment instead of in his own room.

There aren’t any pictures that Kevin can see as he takes the few steps over to the kitchen area. Kevin is pretty sure that’s not normal. Every home he’s ever visited has had at least a couple of framed photos scattered across shelves or hanging on the walls and Kevin is suddenly filled with sympathy for this poor man who doesn’t even have pictures of friends or family to display in his home.

There is a dispenser of antibacterial soap on the sink, and Kevin cleans his hands before rifling through the cupboards for something to eat. Most of the food seems to be canned or ingredients and Kevin isn’t really sure what exactly he can make with three different types of flour and a shelf of assorted herbs but he is pretty sure it won’t qualify as food. Finally he hits the jackpot with the cupboard above the sink: packet mix microwave meals, pancake mix, and an assortment of pop-tarts. Kevin doesn’t want to make a mess with pans and microwave dishes, and he hasn’t had pop-tarts in forever because there are always left-overs at home and Nick hardly ever stops cooking in his spare time anyway. And Kevin always feels guilty eating really sugary food around Nick. Even if Nick says he doesn’t mind, Kevin feels like he’s rubbing his face in it.

Kevin ignores the Apple Strudel and Raspberry packets and goes straight for the frosted S’mores. They burn his fingers when they pop from the toaster and Kevin tears off a piece of paper towel from the roll on the counter top and leaves the pop-tarts to cool for a couple minutes.

He taps out a tune on the counter while he waits until he remembers the phone sitting heavy in his pocket. The display says it’s almost noon and Kevin’s missed five calls from home. He flicks the phone open and closed for a few moments until he reaches a decision; if calls home he’ll either get no answer because at lunchtime it’s difficult enough to even hear the phone let alone have time to answer it or Nick will yell at him, so he calls Bob Bryar their produce guy.

“Kevin? Where are you?” says Bob before Kevin can even say hello.

“Um, I don’t know,” answers Kevin. He thinks maybe he was wrong. Bob is probably going to be angrier than Nick would have been.

“You don’t know,” Bob says through gritted teeth, and Kevin is pretty sure the vein on Bob’s neck is doing that creepy pulsating thing.

“I hit my head,” Kevin explains. “And that guy who kept staring at me at work was there and I think I’m at his place now. He has pop-tarts.”

“He’s with you now?” asks Bob, and he sounds worried.

“Um, no,” says Kevin. “I just woke up. I haven’t seen him since he drove me here.”

“Okay. And you didn’t see which direction you drove?”

“I was kind of busy trying not to puke,” says Kevin, picking at one of the pop-tarts and rifling through the papers on the counter. “Oh!” he says. “Michael Carden.”

The line is silent for a moment and Kevin is about to repeat what he said just in case, when Bob says in his scary-calm voice, “Mike Carden?”

Kevin nods, then remembers Bob can’t see him through the phone, and says, “Yeah. It’s on his mail.”

Kevin reads the address out to Bob and Bob makes him promise to meet him down the street because he’s on his way over right now.

He thinks maybe he should leave a thank you note or something, but he can’t see a pen anywhere, and Kevin doesn’t think Bob will be very understanding if Kevin’s not out waiting for him by the time he arrives. So Kevin wraps the second pop-tart in the paper towel, puts it in his pocket and heads for the front door.

It takes a few minutes for Kevin to give up. The door’s locked and Kevin cannot find the key anywhere. He even moves some of the books and movies from the nearby cabinet to see if the key is hiding there.

Nothing.

Kevin looks over to the window on the opposite wall. There’s a fire escape and the window unlatches easily. Kevin manfully resists the urge to do a victory dance, places the last half of his pop-tart in his mouth and swings his leg out the window.

It is at this very moment that the door opens and Kevin freezes half out the window, pop-tart between his teeth, and Mike staring at him from across the room.

-+-

Mike’s spent the better part of his morning with Butcher in the nursery, and now he can’t shake the smell of fertilizer and his shirt is sticking to his skin from the heat. When he finally unlocks the door to his apartment it takes his brain a minute to catch up on the scene in front of him. He stands frozen in the doorway, folded sheets of paper in one hand, keys in the other, staring at Kevin who is perched halfway out the window with a pop-tart jutting from his mouth.

It takes longer than he’d care to admit before he can think clearly enough to move, but he folds the papers in half again and tucks them into his front pocket, steps inside the apartment and closes the door firmly behind him. Kevin is still motionless on the windowsill, with wide eyes that make Mike think of a deer caught in headlights, and Mike is pulling Kevin back inside within a manner of moments.

“Thanks for taking care of my head,” says Kevin, and he even takes the pop-tart out of him mouth to say it. The pop-tart is coated thickly in saliva from being held in Kevin’s mouth, and there are chocolaty dribbles running down Kevin’s chin, hand and wrist. It would be more off-putting if he hadn’t spent so much time with people with significantly more disgusting habits.

“And thanks for the pop-tarts,” Kevin continues. Mike just nods.

“Anyway, I have to go,” says Kevin after a pause. “My produce guy is coming to pick me up.”

“Your produce guy?” asks Mike. This isn’t good. He knew he shouldn’t have taken Kevin home to begin with, but now he’d told someone else where he was. Mike will have to ditch this apartment, and just when he was starting to get used to it.

“Yeah,” Kevin continues on happily. “Bob Bryar. He runs this produce company, Bob’s Produce? I want to tell him that he should have chosen something clever or punny instead of just Bob’s Produce but he’s kind of scary sometimes. And I still think it’s really cool that the company manager does our deliveries, right?”

“Bob Bryar’s on his way here?” Mike clarifies. Because holy fuck. He does not need Bob Bryar after him, and this kid is in more trouble than Mike could have thought. And if Bryar is on his way then the Way brothers are probably not far behind.

“We have to go,” Mike say, herding Kevin towards the door.

“What? Why?” asks Kevin, and Mike really doesn’t have time for this.

“’Cause you’re more trouble than I thought,” he says.

“I am not trouble,” Kevin protests, and he sounds affronted.

“You are if Bob Bryar’s assigned to watch you and I’m contracted to kill you,” says Mike.

“You’re what?” Kevin’s voice is reaching a pitch higher than Mike thought possible for a human being, let alone a man.

“I’m probably not going to kill you,” Mike placates and continues herding Kevin towards the front door. “It depends on what this is all about.”

But Kevin isn’t any calmer, and in a move so sudden Mike completely misses it, Kevin is flailing over the back of the couch and hurtling himself out the window and down the fire escape. Mike curses and tears out of the apartment and down the three flights of stairs to the ground floor. He’s rounding the corner just as Kevin shoots past, and Mike manages to intercept him; arms wrapping around Kevin’s waist and tackling him to the grass.

Kevin groans and clutches at his head, and Mike spares a worried thought that he’s going to end up causing some sort of permanent damage to this kid if he spends any more time with him. Of course, Mike thinks a moment later, he’s supposed to kill the kid and, in the long run, a few bumps to the head are probably better than a muddy hole in the woods.

“I think I twisted my ankle,” Kevin moans when Mike helps him up. They hobble around the side of the building and across the parking lot together, and climb back into Mike’s car.

“So you’re probably not going to kill me, right?” says Kevin, nervously shifting his hands in his lap.

“Probably not,” Mike agrees. He tries to sound comforting, but he’s out of practice and he doesn’t think it would be reassuring anyway.

The rest of the drive is quiet, the music from the radio breaking the silence with some generic rock-pop song about love by some generic alternative band. Kevin is bopping his head along to the beat, and Mike thinks he is kind of a dork.

Mike also thinks that, all problems aside, this moment – this drive – with the lame music and Kevin bopping along beside him isn’t so bad.

-+-

It takes an hour to reach their destination, a small house on the outskirts of the city with a lopsided picket fence around the small front lawn. There are flowers growing haphazardly in patches along the fence line and clustered in a patchwork of colour around the letterbox. The house itself is a lowset timber structure with chipped green paint and a white trellis to one side, vines clinging to the lattice-work and stretching up towards the guttering. The cement path is uneven and cracked with green shoots pushing through from underneath, and Kevin stumbles a little, not paying attention to his footing.

The door swings open as they approach and a tall, lanky man with longest legs Kevin has ever seen ushers them inside. It’s mostly clean inside, with just a few stray bits and pieces littering the available surfaces and a small stack of magazines splayed across the carpet next to the couch.

“Hello,” says the man, offering his hand. “William Beckett. I’ll be your baby-sitter this afternoon.”

Kevin eyes the proffered hand, and shoots a quick look at Mike before gripping it in his own. “Kevin,” he says. “And I don’t need a baby-sitter.”

“Of course you don’t,” says Bill in a tone that suggests he thinks otherwise, gently pushing him towards the couch. “You just make yourself at home, Kevin. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Kevin eyes the worn grey couch with trepidation. It’s faded and the back is water stained, the cushions are worn and threaded badly enough that Kevin can see the old yellow foam peeking through. Bill is looking at him encouragingly and making shooing gestures with his hands. So Kevin seats himself on the – surprisingly comfortable – couch while Bill drags Mike into an adjoining room.

Kevin’s not sure if the point was to maintain some privacy or not, because he can hear absolutely every word of their conversation. He feels uncomfortable, like he’s eavesdropping, but it’s not like he can help it. And it’s not like they’re saying anything important, or that he can understand. From what Kevin can tell, William is annoyed about leaving a shop, and now a butcher is in charge, Mike thinks Bob is some sort of super assassin or something and William seems to agree. William says something about how Mike really stinks, and Kevin is inclined to agree because he’d been stuck in a car with him for ages and it smelt like the gardening section of a store. Kevin is pretty sure the smell is trapped at the back of his throat somewhere, and he is almost certain he can feel it sitting there taunting him with every breath.

The door opens and Mike walks across the living room and through another door, fluffy green towel in hand. Kevin’s watching the door click shut behind him when he feels the cushions shift, and Bill is sitting next to him, arm slung casually across the couch behind Kevin.

“Monopoly?” he asks, sliding the box onto the coffee table in front of them.

Kevin is collecting his ten dollars from a beauty pageant when Mike wanders back into the room, towel riding low on his hips and a pair of jeans clutched in one hand. There’s a light mist trailing in from the bathroom and it carries with it the scent of shower gel, light and faintly spicy and Kevin’s stomach twists. He’d give anything to be back in his kitchen again, trying to mediate while Joe and Nick get into another spat.

“There’s no way I’m going to fit into these. You own anything other than skinny jeans?” asks Mike. William starts to speak but Mike cuts in. “And I don’t mean those hotpants I found, either. I’m not going outside in them.”

Kevin thinks he maybe wouldn’t mind if Mike did. He definitely has the legs for it.

“I should have dress pants in the closet,” says William. “And I’ll have you know the hotpants were a gift.”

“Yeah, well, I have a change of clothes in the back of my car,” Mike throws his keys to William, who snatches them from the air with agile fingers.

“Fine, fine,” says Bill, standing up and heading outside.

Mike drops himself into the armchair and stretches his legs out on the floor in front of him. Kevin fiddles with his small collection of property cards, but catches himself shooting glances over at Mike. It’s just that Kevin can’t think of a time when he has ever been alone in a room with a naked person (other than when Joe was in his terrible twos and their mom would chase Joe around the house trying to convince him that pants were a good thing. Kevin thinks that’s not even close to the same thing, though). Okay, not so much a naked person as a person in a towel, but still. He never even used the showers in gym.

Kevin shifts awkwardly in his seat and tries not to think about it.

Mike is looking at him questioningly, but he doesn’t say anything so neither does Kevin, and when Bill finally returns, bag in hand, Kevin is intensely thankful. Mike catches the bag when William throws it to him, and he stalks back to the bathroom while Bill plops back down onto the couch next to Kevin.

“My turn,” says Bill, scooping up the pair of dice.

-+-

Mike finds The Butcher at the counter, meticulously arranging flowers. The Butcher had manfully taken over the horticultural duties after he broke his leg a fortnight ago. It is only supposed to be temporary, a form of art therapy until his leg heals and he can return to field work, but Bill has been talking about shifting The Butcher to full time plant care and coordination. It means they won’t have anyone outside the team working at the store and compromising security, and The Butcher is the only one of them who is actually capable of keeping anything alive.

“Impressive,” says Mike, and it’s true; it’s more of a display piece than a bouquet at this point, and the flowers and greenery that Mike never bothered to learn the names of, or really care about, look delicate and _expensive_ , twined together in a carefully crafted structure.

“Anniversary present,” says Butcher, and he’s calmer than Mike’s ever seen him; patiently and painstakingly adding and rearranging each piece. He’s also wearing a shirt today which, Mike realises, is probably upon Bill’s insistence. He wouldn’t leave the running of the store to a guy in only shorts. “It’s going to fucking rule when it’s done.”

“Yeah,” says Mike, and he thinks Bill is on to something getting The Butcher on full time horticulture duties after he recovers. They might even start turning a real profit on this cover business. “Is Sisky in?”

“Oh, yeah,” says The Butcher, snickering a bit.

Mike heads back to the records room, and he’s prepared for whatever state of emotion Siska’s in. If Bill’s let The Butcher cover the front desk even though he’s injured and actually has another job to do, while Siska is still stuck locked away in the back room doing nothing, there’s a high chance for either sulking or violence. Mike’s not sure which one he would prefer.

Sisky is lying across the floor, shirt rucked up under his chest, drawing furiously on a piece of scrap paper. From what Mike can see, it looks like some unfortunate, bloated stick figures and the occasional block of text. Siska spares him the briefest of glances and says, “I am gonna kill Bill.”

Mike takes a moment to shake off the sudden movie flashback, and says, “I’ve got a job for you.”

“Aw, c’mon,” says Siska, petulantly. “You know how the filing system works. Do it yourself.”

Mike sidesteps the well-placed kick Siska aims at his ankles. “It’s in the field.” Then, for good measure, adds, “Dickwad.”

Siska is in the air and engaging in a jubilant fist pump and running out the door in a matter of seconds. Mike eyes the drawing Siska left abandoned on the floor and considers throwing it out. But Mike thinks that if Bill finds the picture he’ll probably just end up framing it. Bill’s got a weird sense of sentimentality.

Siska is loudly proclaiming his freedom and telling someone to “suck on that” which, as far as Mike can tell, isn’t directed at anyone in particular, rather the flower-filled room as a whole. The Butcher is grinning and waving his extended middle finger in Siska’s direction without looking up from his project. Mike bites back a grin of his own because these guys – his co-workers, his friends – they’ve been through a lot of painful shit lately, and their’s isn’t an easy occupation, but they get by and Mike doesn’t think he’d have lasted this long in a career like this if he was stuck working with anybody else.

Mike finds Siska leaning against the front window, arms crossed against his chest and expression stony.

“What’s the job?” he asks, falling into step beside Mike.

-+-

Kevin is getting bored. Bill had called a time out on their Monopoly game in order to show Kevin the various scrapbooks he had made. Kevin thinks that Bill is just a sore loser. And, as impressive as Bill’s scrap booking skills are, Kevin would much rather continue to win at Monopoly. Or, you know, _get to go home_.

The last album is filled with captioned photos of Bill, Mike and the handful of other guys from most of the previous albums. The majority of new photos were taken in rooms filled with flowers and it’s weird because none of the laughing, joyful, flower-toting guys look like they kidnap people and keep them hostage. Although, Kevin thinks, that’s probably how they gain the upper hand.

There’s one picture, towards the back, with a heavily tattooed man wearing only a wreath of flowers on his head and a pair of white short shorts frozen in the middle of a dance. And there, in the back left hand corner, is Mike Carden. The photo has captured him mid-laugh, the neck of a beer bottle held loosely between the fingers of one hand. He’s a little blurry, out of focus, but Kevin thinks it’s a little bit perfect. Kevin also thinks he might be developing Stockholm syndrome.

He closes the album and sets it on the pile he’s already flicked through; the cover staring up at him is a photo of Bill, Mike and three of the other guys sporting daisy chain crowns and a mixture of huge grins and solemn expressions. Kevin hopes that they can finish their game now.

Bill is sprawled across the other half of the couch, watching Kevin. He stretches and says, “We should have lunch, Mr Jonas.”

“Afternoon tea,” says Kevin, pointing at the clock above the TV. It’s almost three o’clock. Kevin can’t believe he hasn’t noticed how hungry he’s gotten until now. His stomach is making very loud and demanding gurgles.

“Details,” says Bill, waving his hand dismissively. He stands in one swift movement and gestures for Kevin to follow him through one of the doorways at the back of the room.

The kitchen is average sized with a small breakfast island and a little table for two. Bill is piling things across the cupboard and Kevin pulls up a stool and starts sorting ingredients.

“Do you have any water chestnuts?” he asks.

“No,” says Bill. “No I do not. I don’t know what they are.”

“Pasta?”

There’s a pause while Bill disappears from view again, then he slides two packets of pasta across the cupboard towards him. Kevin is tearing open the packet of angel hair in no time.

“Where’s -” he starts, but Bill’s already dropping a saucepan in front of him. “Thanks.”

“I thought your brothers were the chefs,” says Bill, leaning back against the sink and watching Kevin whisk lemon juice, chilli and garlic in a bowl. “Don’t you run the bookstore?”

Kevin bites the insides of his cheeks. He hates when people assume he can’t cook just because he’s ‘the bookstore guy’. He _chose_ to work in the bookstore, okay? He’s just as good in the kitchen as his brothers. Okay, maybe not as good as Nick, but Nick’s some sort of culinary genius freak. But still. Kevin is at least as good as Joe; he just really likes the bookstore.

“I help out sometimes,” says Kevin.

Fifteen minutes later lunch is ready. Kevin feels like the pasta is missing something, but he’s used everything decent on hand so there’s not much he can do about that. There’s everything he’ll need for a decent carrot and sprout salad, so if he ends up stuck here for a while he can always make that.

Bill is clearing the plates and shelving them in the dishwasher when the front door slams open and moments later Kevin finds himself wrapped up in a three-way hug with Nick and Joe. He wrests his arms free and returns the embrace. Kevin’s a little ashamed at how happy he is to have them here because he’s pretty sure it means they’re in danger now too. He just clings a little tighter.

“We’re going to be talking in the living room,” says Bill. “You boys behave yourselves.”

The door closes quietly, and even though Joe hasn’t slackened his embrace, Nick is trying to wriggle his way out of the group hug.

“Guys,” he says, elbowing Kevin in the side as he twists around.

Neither Kevin nor Joe budges.

“Guys!”

They let go in unison, and Nick skids backwards across the tiles for a few steps. “I hate you,” he says.

“Love you too,” says Joe, pulling up a seat at the table. “So, what’d we miss?”

Kevin tells them about hitting his head, waking up at Mike’s, finding out about the contract on his head and spending the afternoon with Bill. He leaves out some of the falling over, though.

“Also, I think I’ve developed Stockholm syndrome,” he says.

“Stockholm syndrome,” repeats Nick incredulously. “You’ve only been gone eight hours.”

“You know I always pick things up quick,” say Kevin.

“Hey, yeah,” agrees Joe. “Remember when we went to that music camp over the summer? You totally learnt that song in like, half a day. It was awesome. And when we were learning about fondant you were even better than Nick. And -”

“Okay,” says Nick. “We get it. But it’s not the same thing.”

“Why not?” asks Joe.

“It’s not something you _learn_ ,” says Nick. “It’s just. It’s not.”

“You’re still mad about the fondant, aren’t you,” smirks Joe.

“I am not mad about the fondant!” But Nick is seething. Kevin leans back against the cupboard and watches them bicker. It’s only been eight hours since he saw them last, but he’s missed them so much.

-+-

Joe is perched on the counter swinging his legs, feet connecting with the cupboard in dull rhythmic _thumps_ , and shovelling potato chips into his mouth. Nick has been scowling in his direction for the last five minutes. Joe smiles sweetly in Nick’s direction and swings his feet with greater fervour.

They’ve been sitting in the kitchen for over an hour now; they lapsed into silence when Joe and Nick finally stopped squabbling but no one made any move to join their captors in the next room. Kevin thinks being kidnapped by hired killers should be more interesting than this, but he’s also pretty sure that being kidnapped by hired killers is supposed to involve copious amounts of terror and pain, so he doesn’t really want to voice his complaints.

“So,” says Nick, clearing his throat and looking pointedly at Kevin. “Bill seems very nice.”

“I guess,” says Kevin. He’s still a little annoyed over the whole Monopoly thing, to be honest.

“What?” says Joe, his head is turning between Nick and Kevin like he’s watching a tennis match. Nick looks at Joe and Kevin’s not sure what kind of telepathic messages Nick’s sending, but a few moments later Joe says, “Right, yeah. He’s, uh, really pretty. Almost girl pretty. He’s like a really tall, really pretty girl. Only a guy.”

“What?” snaps Nick sharply. Joe shrugs.

“Okay,” says Kevin slowly. “You guys are really weird. Did they drug you?”

Kevin hopes it’s just a case of drugging. He’s more than a little concerned that these aren’t, in fact, his brothers but are instead super assassins in disguise to make him _think_ he’s talking to his brothers, only he’s not. Because he’s talking to super assassins. Kevin’s not sure why super assassins would pose as his brothers just to sit around with him in a kitchen when he was already very thoroughly kidnapped, but Kevin is not yet learned in the ways of the super assassin.

“What he _means_ ,” says Nick, shooting a glare at Joe, “is that it’s okay with us if you like Bill, even if it isn’t because of Stockholm syndrome. Because we’re your brothers --”

“And we love you,” interrupts Joe, crunching loudly on a new handful of chips. “Even if you’re crazy and crushing on the guy who’s helping hold us captive.”

“Uh, yeah,” says Nick. “Essentially. Yeah. Although I can’t support any liaisons with a man who may or may not be helping to kill us, I still support _you_.”

“I don’t have a crush on Bill,” says Kevin, because what? When did this happen? And isn’t this almost identical to the speech Nick gave when Kevin decided to run the bookshop? Nick really needs to stop with the team-building conferences he insists on attending. He always spends months afterwards using ‘I’ statements and ‘trying to generate an environment of openness and understanding’ and it’s mostly just creepy and weird.

“You don’t need to deny it, bro,” says Joe. He slides from his perch on the cupboard and walks over to drape his arms around Kevin’s shoulders. “We all have lapses in taste sometimes.”

“Like every girl you’ve ever dated?” says Nick.

Joe straightens up and opens his mouth to retaliate, but Kevin jumps in first. “That’s really sweet, you guys. Um, I think? But I’m not interested in Bill.”

“You’re sure?” says Joe, sceptically.

“Even if I was,” says Kevin, “it would never work out. He totally cancelled our Monopoly game halfway through. What kind of person does that?”

Joe shrugs sympathetically and Nick says, “But what about your ‘Stockholm syndrome’?”

“Uh,” says Kevin, not sure what to say. Mike is kind of terrifying and also in the next room. He’s suddenly very aware of how clearly he had been able to hear Mike and Bill talking from the other room earlier.

“No way,” says Joe slowly, shaking his head. “No way!”

“What?” asks Nick.

“But he’s got the soulless eyes of a remorseless killer!” cries Joe.

“Oh,” says Nick, eyes widening in surprise for a moment before his expression returns to normal.  
“You know, they are both actually remorseless killers,” he says to Joe.

“Yeah, but at least Bill doesn’t look like he wants to devour your immortal soul,” Joe shoots back.

“Guys,” says Kevin, a little hysterical. Mike is maybe going to kill them and all Kevin can think about is how warm Mike’s hands are and how pretty Mike looks when he’s actually smiling.

“Hey,” says Nick, and then Kevin is wrapped up in the middle of another group hug. Kevin clings a little more than he usually would. It ends sooner than he’d like, though, with Nick saying they should go figure this thing out. Kevin doesn’t really want to figure anything out; he wants to stay huddled up in the safe little kitchen and hope Mike and Bill just forget about them.

Bill and Mike are sitting on the couch and armchair respectively when Nick strides purposefully into the living room, Kevin and Joe trailing uncertainly behind him. Bill looks like he’s trying not to laugh and Mike is just staring right at Kevin. There is no way he doesn’t know, thinks Kevin. He really wishes the floor would just open up and swallow him whole.

“Nice outfit,” says Bill to Nick who is still garbed in his white chef’s uniform, flour smudged from his hairline to left temple. Mike had apparently emptied the establishment of its patrons and dragged Nick and Joe out of the building with great efficiency. Nick and Joe hadn’t been vague on the details but their stories were very inconsistent. Joe’s version had involved mind control and two explosions.

Nick scowls at Bill and, for a second, Kevin is concerned that Nick is going to snap. But Nick settles for scowling at Bill’s rapidly-growing smile.

Joe’s jittering with impatience beside Kevin; he has always been completely incapable of staying still for more than a few seconds at a time. Kevin sometimes wonders if Joe even knows he’s doing it, knows that he can’t even stop moving for an entire minute, that he looks over-caffeinated or under-medicated when he starts shaking and twitching and tapping on things.

Kevin places a reassuring hand on Nick’s shoulder, spurring him into action.

“What is going on?” he asks.


	2. Chapter 2

Mike doesn’t approve of Bill telling the Jonas brothers everything about the contract, especially since Bill never tells them more than they need to know about a job, which tends to be solely about the customer. But here he is, casually discussing the finer details of his meetings with the client who arranged the job. Mike would probably be more inclined to fight Bill about his sudden openness to divulging classified information if he wasn’t so damn curious himself.

There wasn’t much useful information to be gleaned, however. The contract had been called in from New Jersey by a man using an alias, which was not uncommon in this line of business. The most troubling thing is that all the information the client gave them about Kevin’s alleged embezzlement had checked out. Bill hadn’t realised there was something amiss until Mike called earlier.

This means their client has access to serious resources.

Mike is contemplating the implications of this entire set up when his gaze shifts and he sees Kevin staring at him, looking wild-eyed and panicked. He thinks it’s an appropriate response to hearing someone discuss plans to kill you, but he doesn’t like the accusation in Kevin’s eyes, like Mike is responsible for all of this and not just a guy who was hired to do a job.

Mike shifts in his seat before getting up. He’s thirsty and Bill is up to the parts of his storytelling that Mike already knows about. Nick and Joe are focused on Bill; Nick’s lips pursed in a tight line and arms folded across his chest, Joe standing beside him slack-jawed and transfixed. Kevin, however, tracks Mike’s progression around the room with his eyes.

When he reaches the far side of the room, Mike stops beside Kevin and asks if he wants anything to drink. Kevin squeaks in reply, but none of the rooms other occupants so much look over at them and, after a pause, Kevin nods his head and follows Mike into the kitchen, the door swinging softy closed behind them.

There’s a short chorus of clinking sounds as Mike pulls the fridge door open, plucking two cans from within. Kevin hesitates before accepting the can of soda when Mike holds it out to him, nursing it in his hands and waiting until Mike breaks the seal on his own drink before Kevin opens his.

The kitchen is quiet. Mike can hear Bill’s voice muffled and distorted through the door and somewhere down the street someone is mowing their lawn, but the only noises from within the kitchen are the crackling of aluminium between fingers and the occasional drawn out sluuurp from Kevin who doesn’t seem inclined to tilt his can of soda in order to facilitate the drinking process.

The afternoon sun is glaring in through the kitchen window, spilling across the room in a block of light and heat. The temperature of the room seems to amplify the coolness of the beads of sweat on the can as they track their way across the skin of Mike’s hands, occasionally spilling down his forearm before disappearing somewhere near his elbow. Sometimes it feels like summer will never end.

Kevin is still eying him warily from the other side of the counter.

“How’s your head?” says Mike, leaning back against the refrigerator.

“Oh,” says Kevin, like he hadn’t expected Mike to speak. “Not so bad.”

“Can I?” asks Mike, motioning with his free hand.

“Um, sure,” says Kevin, and Mike meets him halfway, leaning across the counter to examine the cut on Kevin’s head.

“It doesn’t look too bad,” says Mike. The cut is closed and looks clean, although there are still flakes of dried blood tangled in the curls of Kevin’s hair around it. Head wounds are always messy, though. “What about your ankle?”

“Yeah, I think I just landed on it weird,” says Kevin. “It’s not so bad now, either.”

Mike makes a sound of agreement and steps back from the counter. He crushes his empty soda can around the middle and drops it into rubbish bin beside the cupboard.

They fall back into silence again and Mike feels awkward. The only people Mike talks to who know what he does for a living are people who are, or have been, in the same line of work. He usually doesn’t give it much thought, but he’s becoming increasingly aware of the communication gap when trying to connect with someone who has significantly less moral flexibility. Mike was contracted to kill Kevin. It wasn’t personal, Mike didn’t know him, and it’s never personal, but he knows that probably wouldn’t be of any comfort to Kevin.

This situation is bizarre enough for Mike, he doesn’t know what it must be like for Kevin; trapped with the people who were hired to kill him and finding out that someone else out there has gone through a lot of effort to dummy up some very authentic evidence against him in order to place a contract on his life, someone who also managed to stay untraceable and unidentifiable so far. It was kind of fucked up.

“The contract,” Mike starts, and Kevin’s eyes lock instantly with his own and, _fuck_ , Mike feels terrible. “The contract,” he continues, “is void. We’re going to get you and your brothers out of here safely.”

“Oh,” says Kevin, but his face is unreadable. Mike is pretty sure his word means nothing to Kevin, and it probably shouldn’t.

Mike nods at Kevin and heads back out to the living room feeling like a jackass.

Nobody acknowledges Mike when he slips back into the living room and leans himself against the wall by the kitchen door. Bill’s saying that they have someone out following up a few leads.

As if on cue, Sisky bursts through the door, brandishing a stack of paper and demanding, “I am back on full time field work for this.”

“Show me what you’ve found out, first,” says Bill.

“Oh no,” says Sisky. “I spent half this time on the phone being passed from Cobra to Cobra and the other half, well…” Sisky trails off ambiguously. “I’m _out_ of records.”

“You’re out of records,” agrees Bill, extending his arm towards Siska and making ‘give me’ hands at the stack of papers. Siska hands them over.

“You know Bob Bryar’s out looking for them?” Siska says.

“Our produce guy?” says Nick.

“Produce guy?” says Siska, shaking his head. “He’s been part of almost every defence-driven government agency out there. I don’t even know who he’s working for right now. I hear he’s a nice guy, though. If he’s not, you know, torturing or killing you.”

“You think he’s part of our witness protection thing?” asks Joe, and Nick smacks him across the arm.

“What part of ‘life-endangering secret’ do you not understand?” Nick snaps.

“What,” says Joe, waving his arms in Bill’s direction. “Like they don’t already know!”

Bill and Mike look to Siska in question.

“Yeah, we did not know that,” says Siska. “Might explain Bryar, though. There were rumours about the Ways being involved in some witness relocation programs a few years back, but there are always rumours about the Ways going around.

“That’s not all,” Siska continues, pointing towards Joe and Nick. “Two other agencies have been contacted about disposing of these two as well.”

This day is getting increasingly weird and Mike isn’t sure what to make of it. Bill is eyeing Nick and Joe with great speculation, as if by staring at them hard enough the answers to his unspoken queries will somehow be made apparent.

-+-

Kevin has been listening at the door since Mike returned to the living room. He hesitates for a while once his drink is finished, but he drops the can in the bin and quietly slips out of the kitchen to join the others. Kevin narrowly avoids colliding with Mike who is standing, unexpectedly, next to the kitchen door and he winds up standing awkwardly in front of the door.

“What’s with your hair?” says the guy Kevin recognises from Bill’s scrapbooks as Adam T. Siska.

“What?” says Kevin, confused, one hand reaching up on impulse to brush at his curls.

“You look like a poodle.”

Kevin has seen the pictures and he doesn’t think Siska has any right to judge hairstyle choices. Once a guy has had a hairstyle that can only be described as a cross between ferret pelt and deflated Mohawk Kevin is pretty sure they lose all rights to judging the hairstyle choices of others.

Kevin doesn’t have the chance to voice this before Mike turns and leans into the space between Kevin and Siska like a human shield and says that they’ve got bigger problems than hairdressing right now.

“We should relocate,” says Bill. “Get away from the city at least. Do we know who was hired to take care of the other two?”

“Sapporta was hired for Joseph,” says Siska as Bill flicks through the file. “And Nicholas -”

“Oh no,” says Bill, staring at the page in front of him.

“Yeah,” says Siska.

“We’ve got to move,” says Bill as he moves from the couch and heads to his bedroom in the back, stopping only to slap the file to Mike’s chest as he passes.

Kevin tries to peer around Mike to read the page, but the angle is strange and he can’t see it properly with Mike’s shoulders obscuring is view. He decides to join Nick and Joe in their quiet panic instead.

-+-

Mike skims the page until his eyes hit the notes in the lower margin. It takes a moment to decipher Siska’s messy lettering but when he does he understands Bill’s concern. While Gabe would be easy enough to convince to drop the job out of professional courtesy or by calling in a favour, Smith and Urie still had something to prove after their team split.

Bill returns to the room with two duffel bags he’d had packed and waiting, probably since he moved in; you just never know when you’ll have to cut and run in this business. Mike’s got his own bag of essentials stowed away in his trunk, which has proved useful on two separate occasions now.

“All right, kids,” says Bill as he strides across the room to the front door. “We’re on the move. Let’s go, let’s go.”

Mike follows the line of Jonai out the front door and up to the car, grabbing Bill’s bags on the way past to throw in the trunk. The brothers clamber into the back seat and Mike watches Bill talking to Siska in the doorway before they part ways; Siska jumping the fence into the next yard and Bill sliding into the driver’s seat of Mike’s car. Mike would be annoyed with Bill’s presumptuousness, but this isn’t the time or the place so he hands over his keys without comment and sits himself in the passenger seat.

“Where are you taking us?” asks Nick. Mike doesn’t have much – okay, any – experience with taking anyone anywhere against their will but he’s pretty sure the kidnapees should be a little less mouthy and demanding.

“We’re going to a safe house, so don’t you worry your pretty little head about it,” answers Bill, shooting a quick look in the rear-view mirror. “I’ve been watching the weather channel and I hear we’re expecting a change in the wind, so you better wipe that scowl off your face if you don’t want it to freeze that way.”

Nick’s scowl deepens and he slumps down in his seat. Bill’s lips are twitching at the corners, fighting off a smile and Mike thinks Bill is more of a dick than he thinks he is sometimes.

The car is quiet for a while: Kevin and Nick are hunched down in their seats and gazing out their respective side windows; Joe is squashed between them in the tiny backseat, jiggling one foot against the floor and tapping out a beat against his knees; Bill’s lips are pursed in a thin line and he’s careful to abide by the road rules and he’s checking his mirrors frequently enough that Mike knows he’s keeping a look out for tails, too. The last thing they need right now is to be pulled over by the cops or followed to their own safe house.

The scenery is becoming more and more familiar and they’re going where Mike thinks they’re going... Well, he’s not sure if he’s more pissed or worried or annoyed. “Bill,” he says warningly, but then Nick is speaking again.

Nick says, “Where are we going?” He’s more forceful this time, and Mike thinks he must have spent this entire car ride letting his annoyance build up to this.

“We’re the big bad, here,” says Bill conversationally. “And we’re really putting ourselves on the line for you right now, so we’re not answerable to you.”

Bill probably didn’t even give it a second thought, Mike knows. Mike screwed up for whatever reason and Bill could have salvaged the operation easily enough. But Bill didn’t even ask Mike why he did it, Mike’s put them all in danger and if this doesn’t get them all killed it will at the very least irreparably destroy their professional reputation and earn them a spot on a few choice hit lists.

Nick’s face is stony but his eyes are burning with barely restrained anger. Mike is suddenly reminded of Nick’s profession and skill and is silently thankful there aren’t any sharp implements around. Well, not unless you know where to look. Bill might be following a similar train of thought as he says, “We’ve got family in the area. We can stop there for a day or two until I can make other arrangements.”

“Bill.” Mike doesn’t snarl, he really doesn’t, but it’s pretty close. If Bill wasn’t driving Mike would probably punch him. His fist clenches in an anticipatory gesture nonetheless.

“Family?” asks Kevin, catching their eyes in the rear-view mirror.

“Yeah,” says Bill, and it almost sounds like an apology.

“My mom,” says Mike. The urge to punch Bill – to punch something – hasn’t dissipated.

-+-

“Michael?” asks the woman who opens the door. Mike’s mother. She’s almost as tall as Mike with brown hair up in pink curlers, and she tugs her pink cotton robe more securely around herself when she peers over Mike’s shoulder to see the rest of them staring up at her from the stairs.

“Hi mom,” says Mike, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“Oh don’t you ‘hi mom’ me, Michael,” she says sharp and low so that Kevin has to strain to overhear. “You don’t so much as write for six months and now you show up unannounced? With guests, Michael. You could have called. If I knew I’d be having guests I’d have gotten dressed.”

“Sorry,” says Mike, and Kevin thinks he sounds chastised and the apology genuine. Kevin feels a little guilty himself because he shouldn’t be trying so hard to listen in like this.

“Oh,” says Mrs Carden, resolve breaking and wrapping her arms around Mike. “I’ve missed you.”

“Well,” says Bill with a smile. “I think you look lovely as always.”

“You’re such a schmoozer, young William Beckett,” she laughs. “Thank you.

“Come on inside,” she says pushing the door open and ushering them in. “Can’t be standing around in my pajamas all day. You know how the neighbours are.”

There’s a laundry basket of clothes on the couch with a folded ironing board propped up against the wall nearby. The television is playing quietly in the background – it sounds like some type of soap opera, the music swells dramatically and someone confesses to sleeping with someone else’s identical twin before Mrs Carden picks up the remote and the screen goes blank.

“Urgh. I knew it was Tessa,” Nick mutters under his breath. Kevin doesn’t know how Nick can care about the soap opera on TV when they’re practically starring in their own action-adventure come family drama right now. Joe is nodding his agreement, though, and what does Kevin know?

“What’s going on, Michael? Not that it isn’t lovely to see you,” says Mrs Carden, “but you didn’t even visit on Christmas.”

“Not that I’m bitter,” she continues before Mike can say anything. “But you could at least call to let me know you’re still alive.”

“I-” Mike starts, but Mrs Carden continues on.

“You haven’t even introduced me to your guests,” she says.

“Mom,” says Mike, he looks pained for a moment then says “Mom, this is Kevin, Joseph and Nicholas. We’re, uh. We’re helping them out.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” says Mrs Carden and she smiles kindly in their direction.

“You too, ma’am,” says Nick.

“You have a lovely home,” Joe chimes in with the same smile that somehow melts the heart of every other girl he meets. Kevin would really like to know how he does that, because he’s tried and mostly he just looks weird when he tries to mimic it, not getting phone numbers so much as queries about his well-being.

“Uh,” says Kevin when he realises Nick and Joe are both looking at him expectantly. “Your hair looks nice?”

There’s an audible pause and Kevin feels his cheeks heat up. He’d like for just once that Nick would be the one to say something stupid. Maybe Kevin should stop letting his mind wander off on tangents and follow what’s happening around him some more. Maybe then he wouldn’t end up stammering something stupid. His hands are suddenly sweaty and he wipes them on his pants as surreptitiously as possible.

Mrs Carden looks like she’s struggling not to laugh, but when she smiles at Kevin it’s not unkindly so Kevin takes that as an almost-win.

“So Michael and William are helping you out?” she asks.

“Yes,” says Nick, and Kevin is glad Nick loves to take charge because Kevin is pretty sure ‘your son was hired to kill me and we have all been kidnapped sort of’ would be written all over his face and possibly also shouted really loudly in a moment of panic.

“They’re helping us out with a problem,” Nick continues.

“Michael was always very considerate when he was growing up,” says Mrs Carden. “What happened?”

“Um, sorry?” says Nick, looking almost expressionless in the way Kevin knows means he’s feeling anxious and preparing to panic.

“I was wondering what it is that Michael and William are helping you with,” she clarifies.

“Oh,” Nick says.

“Fire!” Joe all but yells.

“Fire?” says Mrs Carden, puzzled.

“Uh,” says Joe, long and drawn out.

Kevin stares with wide eyes straight at Mike, trying to communicate the level of his panic right now.

“There was a fire,” says Bill, sweeping in to salvage the conversation. He wraps an arm around Mrs Carden’s shoulder and gently steers her over to the couch. “Last night,” he says, “their apartment burnt down. They lost everything, but they have family in Michigan – you know how important it is to be with family when tragedy strikes – so Mike and I are driving them there.”

“You two are so sweet,” says Mrs Carden patting Bill’s hand. She turns to face Kevin, Nick and Joe with an expression on her face that is reminiscent of the one Kevin has when there are injured kittens present and says “You poor things. Are you holding up all right?”

“It’s a struggle,” says Joe dramatically, laying it on thick and really playing it up. “We’ve lost everything except each other. But we’ll pull through and --” He breaks off with a strangled squawk as Nick elbows him in the stomach.

“We’ll be all right,” says Kevin.

“You know,” says Mrs Carden, “I think I still have some of Michael’s old clothes boxed away somewhere. There might be something in your sizes and it’ll give you boys something else to wear until you get back on your feet again.

“You don’t mind, do you Michael?” she says.

“No,” says Mike genially. “I don’t mind. That’s a great idea.”

“Excellent,” Bill chimes in. “How’s that flower bed coming along?”

Mrs Carden looks a little thrown by the subject change but says, “It’s been coming along fine. I just haven’t had much time to spend gardening of late.”

Bill nods, makes an agreeable sound and says “While the brothers Jonas are sorting through those clothes Mike and I could lend our horticultural expertise to flower bed.”

“Oh, you boys don’t have to,” says Mrs Carden.

“It’s nothing at all,” says Bill. “It is what we do. We’re professionals, after all.”

“Well, all right then,” says Mrs Carden to their retreating backs as Bill steers Mike out the door by his shoulder. “The gloves are on the hook by the back door.”

“This is weird,” whispers Joe.

“Super weird,” agrees Kevin, whispering back. Mike kills people for money. Mike was going to kill him. Mike kidnapped him and his brothers. Mike decided to save them. Mike’s mom is giving them Mike’s old clothes. He can’t quite process the events because they make absolutely no sense. And the more Kevin thinks about it the more questions he has and he’s sure he’ll never get answers even if they get out of this alive.

“Everything should be in Mike’s old room,” says Mrs Carden, leading the way down the hall.

“It’s weird,” whispers Joe. “He has a mom and a bedroom and clothes.”

“You thought he was a naked orphan?” Kevin whispers back, confused.

“No, I mean it’s so weird that he comes actually from somewhere,” explains Joe.

“Oh,” says Kevin and he nods because that makes sense. Well, Joe-sense.

Nick is a few paces ahead of Kevin and Joe and he’s saying something to Mike’s mom that Kevin can’t hear. Knowing Nick he’s probably thanking her again for her hospitality. Nick always overcompensates with niceties and politeness when talking to parental figures. Kevin doesn’t know much about psychology other than a few phrases and words he picked up from the two months Joe spent dating a psych major (and he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to use them correctly anyway) but Kevin’s pretty sure Nick feels guilty about what happened to their parents.

It’s not Nick’s fault – he wasn’t even ten years old when it happened – but it’s impossible for Nick to understand that. Kevin’s tried talking to him about it, back when they were seeing a trauma therapist, back when they were first relocated, but Nick just shuts down whenever someone brings up the subject.

Joe and Kevin reach the room – Mike’s old bedroom – and Mrs Carden and Nick are already set up over the other side of the room, opening one of the neatly stacked cardboard boxes by the wall.

Kevin wonders whether this day will ever get less weird.

-+-

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” asks Mike. The air outside is warm and humid and Mike can already feel sweat beading along his back where the sun is hitting him.

Bill is already wearing his pair of green and brown gardening gloves and he pulls his phone from the pocket of his jeans.

“That,” says Bill imperiously as he waves the phone at Mike, “is why camera phones are a good investment.”

Mike pulls his own gloves on and makes himself comfortable on grass while Bill snaps a few pictures of the flower bed and, presumably, sends them to The Butcher. Barely a minute later Bill’s phone rings and Bill beckons Mike over to the flower bed.

“We need to pull out these things with the jiggedy leaves and the ones with the yellow things,” says Bill, pointing out the plants in question.

“We also need to cut off these sort of end parts of these things,” Bill says, quickly looking at his phone. “Pruning,” he says. “We need to prune these end parts.”

It’s hot and humid in a way that makes Mike want nothing more than for summer to end. The temperature should have decreased this close to autumn but the heat has remained at a persistent high. Summer had sunk its fingers into the city and wasn’t letting up.

Mike’s own gloved fingers dig into the soil as he sets to the task of uprooting the unwanted foliage. There’s something about the repetitive action that Mike finds calming; he doesn’t need to think about anything or focus on anything other than removing the “things with the jiggedy leaves”. Mike is especially thankful for the distraction the manual labour provides, is thankful he doesn’t have to look up when Bill says “Why?”

There are an abundance of whys: why did he approach the customer? why did he drive the customer to his own residence? why did he break protocol? why doesn't he like tomatoes?

“Why what?” says Mike. He’s being evasive. He knows this and Bill knows this. Mike hadn’t thought he’d be expected to explain himself and he isn’t sure he can.

“Why,” says Bill, “is this one different?”

“You think they deserve to die?” says Mike. “They’re barely adults – two of them aren’t old enough to drink yet.”

“That’s not what I’m saying, Mike. We don’t decide who deserves what,” says Bill, gently. “And it’s never bothered you before.”

They lapse into silence when Mike doesn’t respond; hands digging down into the soil to pull out the roots of the weeds.

Mike doesn’t know why and he doesn’t want to think about it. He’s never had a problem doing his job before and he doesn’t want to consider what this might mean.

“I need a vacation,” says Mike, like it answers Bills’ question at all.

Maybe it does, because Bill says “Yeah” and “I think I need a change, too.”

Bill drops the subject and they continue gardening in quiet.

-+-

Joe spends the afternoon whispering his theories to Kevin detailing exactly how Mike, Bill, and even Mike's mother will have them killed the moment they are lulled into a false sense of security. He is hurriedly weaving a tale of their imminent poisoning when Mrs Carden informs them that the roast chicken wis ready.

Joe stops talking mid-sentence and, in blatant disregard to his theory moments earlier, is the first to the kitchen, downing mouthfuls of food so quickly that Kevin is worried Joe might choke to death. (And maybe that was the insidious plan of their captors all along. The one thing Joe never saw coming.)

Within the next two hours the brothers are each dressed in some of Mike's old clothes and offered Mike's old bedroom for the night. Mrs Carden had insisted on washing and drying the few things they'd each claimed from the boxes that were now resealed and lining the far wall of Mike's old room.

Nick and Joe both immediately called dibs on the double bed which leaves Kevin with the mattress on the floor, squished between the bed and the wall of boxes. Kevin just knows that at least one of his brothers is going to trample him in the morning.

Nick and Joe are squabbling over pillows. They don't always fight this much. Kevin thinks maybe it's stress or a distraction or just something familiar to keep them from going crazy and developing a weird crush on a murderer. Kevin thinks that maybe he should start joining in on the arguments and also he would really like pancakes for breakfast.

-+-

It's dark on the back stoop. The tiny porch light is dim; illuminating some of the brickwork and the tiny insects pinging against the bulb, but very little else. The tip of Mike's cigarette is a small flare of red in the darkness.

It's cooler now the sun has set, but the air is still and warm and smells like rain. Bill is out moving the car around the block, a few extra bags of clothes stowed inside, and Mike is almost out of cigarettes.

He hears the door creak open and a few moments later his mother sits down beside him on the back stoop. "You should really quit, you know," she says, even as she takes a cigarette for herself and waits for Mike to light it.

"I did," he replies, tucking the lighter back in his pocket. Mike almost made it eight months without a cigarette when he started smoking again six months ago. He also stopped cutting his hair which Mike is certain his mother wants to say something about. She doesn't, though, and there's a pregnant pause.

The glow from the cigarettes ebb and flare in the darkness until there are only cigarette butts left. Mike stubs his on the steps next to him and draws another from the pack.

"Michael," his mom says slowly, like she's not sure what to say, or not sure how Mike will react.

"I know we don't talk about it," she says. "Your job. Not that flower shop bit you're trying to sell now - I've known Bill almost as long as I've known you and I know that neither of you knows the first thing about plants.

"I try not to think about it, Michael," she says wearily. "I try not to think about what you do. But those boys. You're not. Are they a job, Michael?"

"No," says Mike quickly. "Mom, no."

"Don't lie to me Michael," she says sternly, but she looks relieved.

"We're just helping them out," Mike says. "That's all."

"Okay," she says, stubs out her own cigarette and stands up. "I'm sorry, Michael," she says, before closing the door behind her.

Mike doesn't know what his mother is sorry for but he feels unsettled.

-+-

Kevin clumsily rolls over on his mattress and smacks into the wall of boxes. His arm hurts from where it collided with the cardboard but he's disgruntled and tired and he jams his pillow down over his head in a futile effort to drown out Joe's obnoxious snoring.

Everything quiets and Kevin lessens his death grip on the pillow. His eyes are itchy and tired and so heavy he can't open them. He sighs quietly and tries to sleep. Moments later Joe lets out an impressively loud snort and Kevin gives up. He will just never sleep ever again.

There's a muffled yelp and before Kevin can think to care about what is happening he gets the air knocked out of him when someone stands on him.

"Sorry," Nick mumbles. "Joe keeps kicking me."

"Hmmrruhm," says Kevin from under his pillow.

"Thanks," says Nick, squashing in next to him. Joe is snoring again but both Nick and Kevin manage to drift off to sleep.

-+-

Mike isn't the most comfortable he's ever been, stretched along the couch on his stomach with Bill using Mike's back like mattress. Mike has a working theory that Bill grows extra elbows when he sleeps - it's the only explanation his sleep-addled mind can concoct to explain the jabbing angles Bill seems to be entirely comprised of.

One of Bill's two hundred elbows jabs sharply into Mike's side, just below his ribs and jolts him out of sleep.

Mike grunts in pain and annoyance and squints his eyes until he can read the glowing green numbers on the clock above the TV. 3:12. Mike closes his eyes and tries to settle back into that uneasy slumber when he hears the door lock _click_ and the door knob slowly turn.

It takes less than a second for Mike to wake up. He grabs his gun from under his pillow with one hand, twists around and wraps his free arm around Bill's waist and rolls them over the back of the couch, landing with a dull _thud_ on the carpet.

"Wha-" Bill starts and Mike clamps a hand over Bill's mouth. The handle stops moving and the sound of every exhale and Bill's warm breath on Mike's hand seems suddenly amplified. Mike moves his hand and they both crouch behind the seat. Bill peers over the headrest and nods at Mike.

Bill is diving for the hallway just as the front door swings open and hits the wall with a _bang_. For a moment everything is quiet; there is only the sound of loose papers rustling in the breeze from the open door and the sound of Mike's blood pumping loudly in his ears. There are five long seconds of this and time seems to stretch an eternity between each passing second, marked only by the thumping of Mike's heart in his chest.

Suddenly the quiet of the room explodes with the sound of gunfire. The framed pictures on the shelves and walls splinter in their frames, the glass from the cabinets of china shatter and coat the floor in shards of glass and ceramics. The stuffing flies out of the couch backing over Mike's head.

A rain of white dust from the plaster walls is still raining down across the room when everything comes to an abrupt stop; the sound of gunfire cuts out leaving nothing in its place but the ringing in Mike's ears and the slow shower of plaster and sofa stuffing floating gently to the ground.

Mike takes a moment to steady himself, then carefully peers out from behind the couch. A bullet flies over his head, reducing a vase to pieces across the already littered floor. He takes a breath, steadies himself and leans back out again, fires off three quick shots in the direction of the doorway and returns to the cover provided by the couch.

There's a sudden bark of laughter from outside and then a voice calls out, "Hey! Hey, Mike, is that you?"

Brendon Urie. Mike feels a sudden moment of panic take hold of him and he freezes. He thinks about his mother only a few doors away down the hall and wishes it was the Way brothers who'd found them. Brendon and Spencer were not only actively trying to kill one of the Jonas brothers but wouldn't hesitate to do the same to anyone who might be in the way. Witnesses need to be eliminated.

"Yeah," Mike calls back casually. "How's L.A.?"

"Not too bad," says Brendon. "We were thinking about moving back home but there's less competition in L.A. And there's not a lot of surfing in Vegas. I'm kicking ass at surfing."

"Yeah?" says Mike.

"Well I can stand up without falling off," says Brendon. "Well, for a little while anyway," he concedes. "I'm still better than Spence."

"Haven't seen him in a while," says Mike evenly. "He with you tonight?"

"He's around," says Brendon and a sense of dread falls over Mike. It's much too quiet. As if on cue the sound of gunfire fills the air, only this time from somewhere toward the back of the house.

"Shit," Mike says to himself.

"Fuck," Brendon yells. "It doesn't sound this loud in the city."

A long time ago, Bill had wanted to take Brendon and Spencer and the two other team members they'd had back then under his tutelage to share his wisdom with the future generations in the business or some shit. It hadn't worked out as Bill planned mostly because they'd only been working in 'the business' for a few years themselves at the time and were still working out their own skills and team dynamics. It seems Brendon and Spencer missed out on the lesson that silencers, while sometimes advantageous, are essentially pointless in the quiet suburbs. Mike knows it's highly unlikely some concerned neighbours haven't already placed an emergency call or two and it will only be a matter of time before the police arrive.

There's a yell and the distant gunfire is replaced with a clattering sound and a dull _thud_. One more shot goes off, followed by what Mike can only describe as half scream, half wail. Mike feels himself start to panic for the briefest moment, sees Brendon raising his weapon in the doorway, taking aim again, when the gun clatters to the ground, falling from Brendon's grasp. Brendon is down on one knee, clutching at his side, face contorted in pain.

Mike has his gun trained on the open doorway when Sisky and the Butcher walk through, Sisky casually picking up Brendon's gun from the floor and tucking it into the waistband of his jeans.

"Hey," says the Butcher. "We just finished burning down the store. What's up?"

"Spencer's somewhere near the back of the house," says Mike, pulling himself to his feet and shaking the plaster from his hair. "Bill headed back that way before all this," he says, waving at the destroyed room in explanation.

"What are we waiting for," says the Butcher, "let's move."

"You're fucking welcome, by the way," says Sisky, nodding at Brendon who is still kneeling in the doorway, breathing heavy and rasping as blood flows thick and sticky across his hands and into a steadily expanding pool on the floor.

-+-

Bill is staring at Nick with a look that is equal parts awe and surprise.

"I'm a chef," Nick says, shrugging. "We're good with knives."

They're huddled behind the kitchen counter, the four of them: Nick, Joe, Bill and Kevin. They'd almost made it to the back door when it had slammed open and the room exploded with noise and splintered wood from the cabinets. Now they are pressed close behind the counter while outside somewhere the gunman is screaming a litany of profanity Kevin will never, ever repeat, and sporting a filet knife to the thigh thanks to Nick.

The door behind them opens and Nick is reaching for another knife when Bill stays his hand. Mike and Siska and some third guy Kevin doesn't know are standing there, armed and looking like something out of an action movie.

"Brendon?" Bill asks and Siska says, "Taken care of."

"Is that Spencer?" asks Mike, tilting his head toward the stream of foul language still spilling in from outside.

"Knife to the leg," says Bill and he looks at Nick again, briefly, with wonder and amusement.

"I got this," says Siska, pulling a gun from the back of his jeans, taking the safety off and striding out the door into pre-dawn darkness.

There's a shot, loud and followed by unsettling quiet, and before Kevin can think too much about what this means, he's being hauled up and hurried out the door behind Mike. It's too dark outside to see clearly and they move quickly and awkwardly through the garden, bare feet sinking into the muddy earth and stumbling over patches of flowers and shrubbery.

They stumble out onto the footpath and the world is lit by dim streetlights. The air is cool and it's spitting with rain and Kevin's feet are caked in mud and grass and his ankles are scratched from a few unfortunate encounters with a particularly grabby series of plants along the way. He doesn't even notice Mike is holding onto his arm until Mike's hand is gone and cool air hits the skin of his wrist where Mike's hand had been.

Mike moves to head back to the house when Bill says, "She's not there. She went out the bedroom window before Spencer showed up."

Mike tenses for a moment, but then Kevin, Nick and Joe are being herded down the street and ushered into Bill's car. It's an uncomfortable experience being crammed into a car with two more people than the design allows for and Kevin is pressed in between Mike and Nick, with Joe on the other side by the door and the random newcomer on the floor at Joe's feet, somehow managing to look comfortable. Bill and Siska are lucky enough to get the front seats.

A phone rings and Kevin is shuffled over into Nick as Mike twists to pry the phone from his pocket.

"Mom?" he says. Then, "Yeah." And Kevin can hear the relief in that one syllable and knows that Mike's mom is okay.

Mike says, "Okay," into his phone and then slips it back into his pocket.

The sound of approaching sirens get nearer and nearer and Kevin wonders for a minute if they'll get caught; if Bob, who is apparently not just a produce guy, will be there to drag them back to their caseworkers (and if the older Mr Way will look at them all disappointed like the last time they had to be moved because Joe blabbed) and have the brothers shuffled off to some other part of the country with new names and life stories to memorise all over again; if Bill and Mike will be arrested and sentenced to however long in prison for whatever crimes they can be charged with. Kevin's not really sure whether he wants any of that to happen.

"They're not going to stop looking," says Mike.

"Then we'll just have to keep moving," replies Bill. "I think I'd like to try running a real flower shop this time."

"What?" says Siska, sounding unimpressed. "Like, legit?"

"Yeah," says Bill. "I want to do something challenging for once."

"Yeah," agrees Mike, and his voice softens a little as his eyes meet Kevin's. "I think I'd like that too."


End file.
